


Blood and Bones

by Rocinan



Series: Broken Mirror: Berlermo Dark fics [1]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Dark, Graphic Description, Horror, I do not approve or condone anything that happens here, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of blood and gore, Misogyny, Murder, Obsessive Behavior, One Shot, Unhealthy Relationships, bad people with bad opinions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27363328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocinan/pseuds/Rocinan
Summary: “Don’t ask your questions to the wall / They keep their secrets locked inside them.”Martín Berrote was a normal man with a normal job. Until he becomes obsessed with a murderer on the news. The devil was on Earth and his name was Andrés.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: Broken Mirror: Berlermo Dark fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998601
Comments: 16
Kudos: 24





	Blood and Bones

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: misogyny, stupid/bad opinions from Martín and Andrés at their very worst, mentions of gore/murder, death, romanticization of murder, unhealthy obsession, dark content in general (but not dark enough to warrant a dead dove warning)
> 
> I originally wanted to write some creepy fics for Halloween but I missed the deadline lol. This is also kind of a challenge to myself because I've always been more interested in writing the "lighter" side of berlermo and how it can go in positive directions. This is the Opposite of that- it's how dark they can go at their worst (still an AU though, so NOT canon compliant in any way!). 
> 
> Was a bit nervous about publishing this one, so just to be clear: I do NOT condone, approve, or agree with a single thing that happens in this story! I do NOT condone, approve, or agree with any of the characters' opinions expressed here either.
> 
> If this fic isn't your cup of tea, please don't feel obligated to read. If it *is* something you're interested in though, please read to the very end.
> 
> (Minor note: Some mention of past Palsinki, but given the directions this thing goes in... Mirko dodged a bullet)

Pop! The cap sprung off. He lifted the bottle to his lips. And the stale taste of alcohol spilled down his throat.

Martín Berrote was a normal man with a normal job. He was an engineer, not of the particularly well-paid sort, but the respected kind nonetheless. He was edging past his prime, but not by many years, and as far as anyone else could see, he still had a healthy life ahead of him, defined by thick hair, a sturdy build, and an appetite for a regular life. He ate twice a day, sometimes once, less for the taste and more because the human body beckoned him. 

He mostly drank because he could. Years ago, maybe, alcohol had the effect of lifting his spirits. Now he did it as a force of habit. The same went for the cigarette in his hand. Nowadays, he preferred to watch the smoke rise than actually feel it in his lungs. Everything tasted like paper in the present, including blunts, beer, and whatever else he had on hand.

Sometimes water would leak through the cracks in his ceiling, from the neighbor’s bathroom, one floor up. Martín had complained a year ago, and nearly gotten into a fight with the other tenant. He’d wanted to knock the man’s ugly teeth out, until Mirko had dragged him home. Now, watching the water leak, Martín grumbled but couldn’t be bothered to move. He sank farther into the armchair instead, itself having long since lost its spring.

Mirko no longer lived with him. “Come find me when you’re ready,” the man had told him sadly. “We can work through it.”

It wasn’t exactly a breakup. Mirko had been kindly, and they both agreed that someone needed space. Martín just wasn’t sure who needed more space. As he popped another cap, he thought of his ex again. It had been nearly a year since Mirko’s departure. What led up to it, Martín couldn’t quite place-- it may have been his outbursts, the constant banality of his existence, or his angry tongue. And even a saint like Mirko had his limits.

Hurt people _hurt_ people. It was a cliched saying, but Martín knew there was some truth to it. He rather enjoyed lashing out at others, Mirko especially. Then he’d berate himself afterwards. And when the guilt passed, he’d start again. Maybe he’d wanted Mirko to leave him all along. 

Mirko had always believed in the best of Martín. Martín wasn’t sure if he had a best to believe in. But he wasn’t delusional-- he hadn’t sent Mirko away for the man’s own good. More than likely, Martín had tired of him as he had tired of everything else in his pathetic life. It would explain why he hadn’t shed a single tear, why he’d felt nothing but a dull relief at returning to the routines he hated.

Because he had no one else to talk to- and honestly, who would want to talk to Martín now?- he sat through his third bottle of beer, ruminating on what went wrong when his eyes flicked back to the television screen.

He had the volume low, the screen a face of blue and white in the dark. 

**Madrid Man Murders Wife and Child,** the headline read, flashing by in bold red letters.

Martín thought of changing the channel, the reporter’s words rapidly streaming through his ears. All of Spain was in an uproar, or perhaps just Madrid. He wasn’t paying attention anyway. 

Until the killer’s image flashed by, uncensored and in full view. He didn’t look the type of man who would snap and murder his family in cold blood. He didn’t look unsatisfied. Dark eyes, dark hair. A crooked smile made of bow lips. A blazer of green velvet, fine and rich and-

Martín swallowed, savoring the bob in his throat. His hand hovered over the remote, but the channel remained unchanged.

 _Beautiful,_ he thought through a drunken haze, _he’s beautiful, he’s beautiful._

* * *

Martín was happier in the following days. He even attended a few work parties, and found himself having a rather good time. He wasn’t sure what he could attribute his cheer to, but he chalked up to a sense of purpose, of having something to look forward to. 

In his free time- of which there was plenty- he followed up on the case of the Madrid murderer. He combed the web for articles, in any language he could find, official and unofficial. Forums, news outlets, and whatever else there was. He clipped the articles from periodicals, lined his desk with them. And when there was no longer room, he moved the clippings to his wall.

Martín wanted to know the killer’s fate. He was less interested in the man’s motivation, but the articles provided him with an interesting read nonetheless. As for the victims, their relatives were rightfully incensed. It was all very dramatic, and the more he understood, the juicier the story became.

Andrés de Fonollosa was the murderer’s name. Late forties. Otherwise a respected art dealer and painter. That was the initial report.

Then the ugly details surfaced. Andrés de Fonollosa. Divorced five times, some marriages barely lasting a year. His former spouses declined to comment. He was, by other accounts, a solitary man who had once been jailed for forgery. And before forgery, he’d allegedly stabbed another man in the genitals with a fork. 

A former secretary described him as a disgusting misogynist at worst, a delusional sexist at best. He’d scribbled his thoughts on the back of his paintings, incoherent messy rambles about virginity and the female psyche, the burden of infancy, and other damning things. Martín could not say he disagreed with Fonollosa.

As the investigation continued, the news declared Andrés de Fonollosa a diagnosed narcissist devoid of empathy. Rumor had it that he’d been seeing another woman in the days leading up to the murder. His then-spouse had voiced her complaints to friends and family through the month. She spoke of his detached behavior, the insensitivity in his words, and so on. Everything pointed to dissent between husband and wife.

The news presented Martín with a true and thorough psychopath who regarded all life as objects for his pleasure. Unrepentant and unscrupulous, this monster of a man slit his wife’s throat and hacked her to pieces with a kitchen knife. He did the same to their toddler and bound the corpses in garbage bags. He’d even gone as far as to adorn his paintings with their blood.

The public- globally, it seemed- was crying for Andrés de Fonollosa to be drawn and quartered, hanged, beheaded, gunned, electrified, burned to death. Whatever they chose to do with him in the end, Martín hoped they’d save the skin on his face for last. He thought of that beautiful face contorted in agony- if such an expression was even possible on such a man- and shivered, not quite from displeasure.

At his trial, Fonollosa, stripped of his suits and presented in a bland jumpsuit, had the gall to smile. He smirked for the cameras, eyes sparkling for attention, and took his seat with all the leisure of a man out for a drink.

“Why did you do it?” they asked.

And he’d said, “Children are like warheads. When they leave the vagina, they consume the mother’s attention. That’s the natural order of things. When a woman has an infant, she has no desire to please a man.”

“You killed your son for that reason?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

And the wife?

“She was always a ditzy fragile woman. It doesn’t surprise me that her weakness led to such a fate. Those not built for resistance shouldn’t try.”

He would have gotten the death penalty somewhere else. But all Madrid could do was put him away, out of sight and out of mind. Unsurprisingly, they locked Andrés de Fonollosa away for life. He was, as every sane spectator could tell, a delusional evil man- if such a thing could even be called a man- with no hope for remorse or redemption. The devil was on Earth and his name was Andrés.

* * *

Martín was rather shaken after Fonollosa’s trial. The man’s words had resonated with some hidden part of him. So some months later, he traded his beer for paper. He found the address of Andrés’ cell, and he wrote. He wrote and wrote. And wrote.

Pages and pages of thoughts scribbled in pen.

_You don’t know me. But I know you. You’re a man with balls. Most men are fucking cowards. Too afraid to offend, to risk losing the hands that feed them. I saw you at the trial. No matter what they say about you, I know for a fact that you’re correct. These are the basic facts of biology- a woman’s sexual desire is driven by her need to reproduce. Fair enough that’s how humans breed. But a man’s drive? It’s raw and real, pleasure for pleasure’s sake._

He sent that letter out. Then another.

_I admire you greatly, Andrés. I’ve been keeping up with your story. They say things about you, true things I guess. But you’re the only one who knows. Maybe some day you’ll let me in._

And another.

_They say you killed her because you wanted to fuck your secretary. I don’t think that bitch wants anything to do with you, really. Maybe you didn’t want to fuck anyone. I don’t blame you for doing what you did. These women were unworthy of you. All vapid faces and open holes and nothing inside. They didn’t understand. It’s beyond them._

In all honesty, Martín did not expect Andrés de Fonollosa to receive his letters. It made him want to write more.

_I know you wouldn’t go for some common whore. Don’t care what the news is saying. I know you’d never get into prostitution. What they don’t understand is that your aesthetics are not your ethics. And in my opinion, ethics are just excuses._

So he kept writing.

* * *

Martín hated Sergio Marquina and his smug face. Marquina was perhaps the only man in the world who believed Andrés was innocent. Long after the infamous trial, he was still trying to appeal his half-brother’s case. 

“If he was guilty,” Marquina had told the reporters, “why would he call the police on himself?”

Sergio Marquina believed his brother was not so depraved an individual. In other words, he believed his brother was a coward who lacked the guts to do the deed and was enough of a pushover to take the fall for someone else. Such slander made Martín furious.

The internet believed Sergio Marquina as delusional as his sick excuse of a brother. Martín believed the same thing, but there was a difference. Andrés wasn’t delusional. In fact, Andrés was the only one whose head was clear. 

Martín knew this now.

* * *

_Your brother was on the news again. Son of a bitch. I know you did what you did because you had to. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in the truth. Sometimes I look to the wall and ask, will I ever be as brave as you?_

* * *

Then- Andrés replied.

* * *

Martín pressed his back to the wall, heart racing, and slid down, until he felt himself on the floor. He clutched the letter to his chest, fingers digging into each corner. Andrés had replied. He’d replied. 

And shaking, Martín reread what he wrote:

**“Martín, Don’t ask your questions to the wall. They keep their secrets locked inside them.”**

That was all he’d written, but there had to be more to it. This, Martín could tell. There was another message here that Andrés wanted him to find, trusted him to find. And he would not fail.

He pressed the letter to his lips, roaming for the taste of pencil lead. He could almost feel Andrés’ hand on his chin, long fingers coming to stroke his jaw. He could smell Andrés, the faintest of musk in the air. And he shut his eyes.

Martín squeezed. He imagined Andrés’ hands around his throat, the glint of steel from his knife. He thought of the way his last wife had died. In her own blood, perhaps choking while Andrés drove the knife in again and again. Furiously? Lovingly?

Martín moaned, ruffling the letter down to his crotch. Andrés was with him now, those hands cupped around his cock.

“You were right,” Andrés would say, “those women were unworthy. Unlike you, Martín.”

_I’m not worthy._

“You will be. You can learn how to be.”

He felt the paper drip with cum, sweaty palms firmly pressed to his throbbing dick. And teeth gritting, Martín rocked himself back and forth. He felt Andrés’ hands- cold? Warm?- wrap around his thighs, the man’s knife- cock?- pressed into Martín’s bottom. Yes, he would learn. He would learn. 

Martín would bleed. He would bleed gladly. And then in gratitude, Andrés would close his perfect sculpted mouth around Martín’s erect-

* * *

When Martín awoke, he turned the letter right-side up. And there, in the lightest of etchings, he saw where an eraser had touched:

_“If blood and bones are what you want, I suggest you look behind you.”_

He obeyed.

And he saw the water drip down from above.

* * *

“Fix your fucking pipes.”

* * *

Martín did the deed with a busted lamp. The neighbor upstairs was a mess of blood and bone at his feet, that pudgy skull easily crushed with a single whack. Whistling, Martín knelt to feel the pooling blood.

It was squishy to the touch. Satisfying. No, he was not ecstatic. Nor was he bored.

He was simply glad that he’d put an end to the problem. He was learning.

* * *

When Martín finally heard Andrés’ voice again, they were face to face. Andrés looked the same as he did at the trial, crisp and clean and smiling from the eyes. He was every bit as beautiful as Martín had imagined.

And only a sheet of glass kept them apart. Martín hated it.

The phone at his ear, Andrés said, “Martín Berrote, I read your letters.”

“I know.” 

“Are you well?”

Was he? Martín shrugged, the stench of blood since a permanent fixture in his nose. 

“I did it, what you told me to do.” And whispering, Martín added, “I haven’t been caught.”

Andrés laughed. Such a rich, pleasant laugh.

“Oh, Martín. What are you talking about?”

“Your message- I did… what you wanted me to do. I’ve done it so many times now. It feels different each time, but I’m used to it. Almost.”

Andrés did not seem to smell the blood. He tilted his head. “Are you saying you copied me?”

Martín laughed. “Never. I only learn.”

Andrés regarded him for a moment, then smiled, something cold in his lips. “I didn’t do it, you know.”

* * *

What?

* * *

“I know who did, but it hardly matters. It’s a boring story of an angry ex-wife. She thought murdering my family would hurt me. Unfortunately, Martín… I felt nothing. I’d give anything to cry for them, but I couldn’t.”

Martín looked at his knuckles, still bruised and smelling of copper.

“The blood on the painting-”

“I wanted to remember them. What better way to immortalize their tragic ends?”

“At the trial, you said-”

“I imagine the real killer was frothing at the mouth. Why should I play victim when I can be something so much more, no?”

He wondered if the glass was cracking, cracking, cracking- “Your letter?”

“Ah, that.”

* * *

Andrés shrugged. “I was bored.” And before he hung up, he said with a grin, “But don’t despair, Martín. I’m very proud of you and whatever it is you did.”

* * *

Pop! The cap sprung off. He lifted the bottle to his lips. And the stale taste of alcohol spilled down his throat.

**Author's Note:**

> Plot twist: Tatiana was the murderer uwu
> 
> If you made it to the end, thank you for reading! Hope this checks out as a belated Halloween story (and I have a few more dark!fic ideas planned though this one is probably the most unsettling to me personally!).
> 
> The fic (and lyrics within) was inspired by the song "Blood and Bones" by the Blake Robinson Synthetic Orchestra, a very cool and creepy song that's also oddly funny.


End file.
